five for five
by anenemies
Summary: Five senses and five thieves.


When Sam died, after he laid his tiny body back on the gurney, and the solemn nurse led him out of the room to sit in one of those rigid, too small, plastic chairs, he nearly vomited. He had been staring at the linoleum and thinking that he would have to empty out all of Sam's toys from his hospital room (they had practically moved in after the second month of treatment) and he had gagged.

There had been that familiar sensation and a horrible, acidic, bitter burning at the back of his throat. But he swallowed once, twice. He didn't vomit that night but the taste lingered on his tongue, coating it like the cheap white paint Maggie had thrown up as soon as she got home covered the sunny blue walls of his son's bedroom. It was all he could taste, all he could think about. He went through three bottles of mouth wash.

After the funeral they held a wake. Maggie's mother insisted. There was food laid out in the dining room but he wasn't hungry. There was also a small beverages table. Jonathon, his office was next door to his but they didn't really talk, offered his condolences, shaking his right hand and pressing a glass of amber liquid into his left. Not really paying attention he took a sip, then a draught, then he finished the glass and ambled over to the bar.

It was bitter, but it eclipsed the taste of his son's death for the time being.

Sophie absolutely refuses to wear rayon. Or acrylic. Or any other cheap, stretchy, shiny, itchy fabric. Sophie liked silk, or cashmere, or marino wool. She liked the _feel_ of the expensive stuff; she simply loathed the way other fabrics _stuck_. Occasionally Sophie would shop through touch alone. Would run her hands over the racks of clothing waiting for her fingers to catch on something soft, something smooth.

She enjoyed the feel of expensive fabric on her skin, of premium leather on her feet, of the best of the best. Sophie enjoyed her luxuries and made no apologies for it. After all, she had _earned_ her money.

(When Sophie was twelve her only jumper was orange. It was shiny and really from the boys section but it was all that fit her in the thrift shop down the block so her mother made her wear it every day until its neck wore out. The other little girls didn't have to wear an orange jumper.)

_Snap Crackle Pop_

Walther P99 semi-automatic. M50 Reising. Barrett M95.

It wasn't that hard to learn. At first it was kinda like a hobby. Something to do with his spare time. Now he could identify most commonly used fire arms by sound. Some of the semis were hard to distinguish but practice makes perfect.

Eliot's sense of hearing had always been keen. They had kept an old piano in the front room, Grandma had played and mama did too and Eliot used to like to sit at the base of it and do his homework while his mother played. He _had an ear for music_ his mama used to say.

It was that keen sense of hearing that had kept him alive many times. Hearing footsteps that most others wouldn't ever notice, hearing the _slick_ of a knife pulled from sheath, the nervous tapping of first-timers. He could always protect himself because he knew when the other guy was coming.

Mostly it didn't bother him that Parker could sneak up on him. He figures it _is_ Parker.

Hardison was a fast reader.

It came in handy in the standardized testing world he was brought up in and was even better for when he read streams of data and code in moments.

Unfortunately, Hardison also liked pretty things. Liked bright colours and strong silhouettes, had even contemplated going into computer design back when a _real_ life was a possibility. He liked comic books and sci-fi, enjoyed the bold, splashy artistry and fancy effects. His eye was always being caught by _something_, a brightly coloured piece of litter, a bit of beautiful architecture, a billboard, a commercial.

So who could blame him if he occasionally got caught up in exactly how pretty Parker's hair was.

She likes the smell of Sophie's perfume. It smelt expensive and crisp, not cheap and musky like her foster mother's.

She likes the smell of wood smoke, of fire. There was something satisfying in something _horrible_ burning up into nothing.

Parker liked the smell of dust. It was surprising how little air ducts were cleaned out, so it was a good thing too. She liked the way it was sweet and old and lingered just a little bit in her clothes after a job.

She hates the smell of alcohol. It always makes her gag. (The thicksweet scent on his breath as he _pantspantspants_).


End file.
